Love in the Key of G
by bouncyballparty
Summary: It's love story, about a prodigy with an alto saxophone and the single most interesting thing that Riku has encountered in a long time. Will the young musician be just what he'd been waiting for or will he turn out to be much more than he can handle?
1. Juilliard

**Love in the Key of G**

**Act One : Juilliard**

–

_February 15 -Morning-_

It's a few minutes after 8 AM and I'm only a little tired as I walk the couple of blocks into the city to find the local newsstand.

Coffee already in hand, little plastic top securely in place, I briefly set down my cup, glancing at the headlines as I dig out a crumpled dollar bill from the bottom of my pocket, pushing it across the counter to the surly-looking vendor. I wait on change—a quarter—gathering my coffee and paper, taking a second to situate it in the crook of my arm before stepping off the curb into the street.

Traffic is at a manageable standstill and I weave around the immobile cars to the other side, sipping tentatively from my coffee. Still hot. It's a welcome difference from the chill of air blowing shortly through the silhouettes of tall monolithic buildings on either side of the street. Pollution-dark snow stubbornly clings to sidewalk in places where the sun has yet to shine, packed tightly against the curb in makeshift ramps that I have to practically vault to get onto the sidewalk.

Wiggling my slightly singed tongue against the roof of my mouth, I use my newspaper to brush lingering snow off a nearby bench under a once shady, but now bare and prickly looking tree, shrugging off my bag and sitting despite the fact that the cold has crept through my shoes and into my toes.

I don't really mind winter. The crisp air, the smoky wisps of steam from my coffee, and there has always been something strangely captivating about seeing your own breath. Reminds me of being a kid in the corner of the schoolyard at recess, pretending to smoke like it was cool.

Spreading the first pages of newspaper, I rummage through for the Features section, pulling out the crossword and pointedly ignoring the column on the next page. Once upon a time, I was really good at these. My mother was a bit of a word queen, and we used to do them together every morning. I could clearly remember the pattern of blue and white of her comforter and curling up in the thick blankets so big I could, as a eight-year-old, get easily lost in, trying to remember lines of poetry and movie titles.

I curl my legs up on the bench, folding my feet as far under my thighs as I can manage in an effort to warm them a little, balancing my coffee cup on a slat of the bench so it was just within arm's reach. A yawn sends a small cloud into the air in front of my face, and I blink away the last remnants of fuzz from my brain as I glance at a random clue, confident about my answer already.

23) Down : Underworld of Greek Mythology. Easy.

Just as I search through my bag for a pen and am jotting down the first two lines of a capital H, I'm suddenly aware that I'm sharing my little area with someone besides the occasional passing pedestrian.

The black case draws my attention first. It's snapped wide open, revealing a red velvet lined inside and twisted curved metal that reflected the sun before being cradled carefully in hands covered in fingerless gray faded gloves. The owner itself is bundled in a brown Carhartt with a little age to it and khaki painters pants. His covered hair is pushed flat under a forest green knit beanie, leaving his dark bangs to curl down and out from under the edges of his hat so they hung in front of his eyes at an odd angle.

He crouched and picked through his case for small fragile-looking bits of metal and deftly assembling them together with quick hands. I become vaguely aware that I'm staring at this moment and in vain attempt to start up my puzzle again, I scribble down the rest of the letters in their appropriate spaces, H-A-D-E-S, double-checking the clue simply out of habit.

The other occupant to my spot is finished with his assembling and I can't help but notice that it's quite a large instrument—a saxophone—larger than the soprano and more slight than the baritone, but that's about the extent of my knowledge. It's lacquered black which is strange because I've only seen them in gold before.

I shiver lightly and reach for my coffee to counter it, drinking slowly and worrying the edges of my crossword with my fingernails. Saxophone Boy is pacing back and forth in my peripheral vision, probably to keep his body warm and I'm trying not to think about the column on the other page opposite the crossword and scramble of the Features section.

Because it's not _my _column, of course.

Not anymore, anyway.

I nibble the edge of the cover to my cup and sigh, deeply. Okay, so I'm not awake this early because I enjoy it. It's because I'm _used to it_. I'm used to my old office hours, waking at six, spending the whole day on my feet or at a desk. I can't stand sitting around at home, dodging my roommate's subtle jabs about due rent and grocery shopping.

I can't stand unemployment.

So I buy a coffee and a paper and attempt to get my life back on track. Which usually results in half-assed crossword puzzles and thoughts of resentment and self-pity.

Saxophone Boy stops pacing for a second, pulling what looks like a thin, broken Popsicle stick from his lips and sliding it into the mouthpiece. He's kind of young, somewhere 20-ish. I briefly wonder what he's doing out on the sidewalk on a Tuesday at 8 AM with a saxophone.

Struggling musician, I assumed.

Blue eyes flicker up from under his knit hat after a moment and the movement is too quick for me to try to look away in time without seeming like a huge dork, so I establish eye contact for two whole seconds, and try to remember if I had ever seen someone with eyes quite that clear and bright before. The boy smiles a little around his mouthpiece, and I'll admit it, I'm intrigued.

I sink down on my bench and try to appear more enveloped in my crossword as my employment woes take a back seat to interesting Saxophone Boy, and suddenly, I don't feel so depressed anymore. I couldn't quite read into that smile, but maybe—What if he was interested too?

I nearly jump when he plays a few notes, scales that are entirely too loud at first before he finds the correct pitch and key and everything kind of evens out into something much more pleasant.

His eyes are closed, and the melody of the music is almost sensual sounding in its slow, swinging cadence, producing low vibrations that thrums steadily in my chest. The boy's lips are cherry red around his mouthpiece from the cold, and he is quite possibly the most exciting thing that I have encountered in a long time.

The song he's playing is like something I'd only heard of in jazz clubs. It's something improvised and artsy, sad and soulful, all at once. Almost haunting, and I find myself wondering how someone so young could have possibly acquired such a veteran sound, with an obvious skill that only added to the mystery of why exactly he wasn't somewhere playing professionally in front of an audience that actually gave a damn and making albums and all that good shit, and not freezing outside in the cold for a tiny amount of money.

Which, annoyingly, brought my train of thought back to my own situation. What the hell was _I_ doing freezing outside in the cold?

Crossword. Right.

It's right around this point that I think about packing it in for the day, even though it's only been about 20 minutes or so, and dragging my pity pot on elsewhere to darken some other bench in the city, because Saxophone Boy's song has gotten just a little bit too somber and oppressed sounding for me. And right now the only thing from throwing myself in traffic is the side of a bus stop, with an underwear ad model spray-painted as if her nipples were showing through her half-shirt.

The immature graffiti is just another reason to move and I stand, gathering up my bag and shove the newspaper and ballpoint inside. I dig in my pocket for the quarter I had earlier. The kid's saxophone case is still wide open, bright red felt enticing passersby to kindly drop their unwanted change inside. I figure it's only decent to give him something, even if I only have very little to give myself.

Blue eyes follow my hand as I drop the quarter in his case and he looks at it for a long second, before meeting my eyes. I almost offer an apologetic shrug, but he smiles, mouthpiece still between his lips, cheeks still tight as he continued to play seamlessly, and it's the best thank you he can manage, I suppose.

"Play something happier next time." I say, and his clear eyes seem to nod in a way he can't at the moment.

And I step off the curb and follow the line of parked cars to the other side of the street.

G–G

_February 17 -Morning-_

This morning I'm actually pretty excited because I managed to get a job interview with a local newspaper. It's nothing huge or life altering, but it's a job, just to pay the rent until something better comes along.

I spend much more time than I'd like to admit searching my closet for something appropriate to wear. I've never been the type to fuss over clothes, but somewhere along the line, I lost my nerve, had to take a minute to stop, and start all over again.

I don't dress up.

Anyway, I've got an hour before my interview and I walk the two blocks it takes to get my usual coffee—regular with milk and sugar—ultimately deciding to skip the paper today. I don't have time for crosswords and even the stray thought of a newspaper would most likely make me nervous. So I sip at the coffee I can barely afford, and, well...

I wonder if the Saxophone Boy is playing the same spot again.

At first the street is quiet, though still busy with street noise, passing cars and the occasional horn. It isn't until I'm at least a block away from the bench I was at the other day that I begin to hear the familiar sound, the smooth, sensual sound of saxophone carrying on the frigid wind. I can't help but smile a little at the drastically lighter tone and the quite bouncier, jovial melody. Walking still, the source of the music is a khaki Carhatt speck on the sidewalk between the wall of buildings and a miniature bus stop. And there's a bit of a crowd today.

I feel oddly proud about that, as if it were my suggestion that gave him more of an audience. Standing on the edge of the six or seven people, I drink my coffee and watch, keeping a vigilant eye on the time, all the while.

Whatever he's playing is phenomenal. I'm not even a fan of jazz, I can't even fathom anyone my age being an actual "fan" but, even in my lack of musical expertise, I can at least tell that it's good. It's kind of fast and his fingers switch seamlessly between keys, making it look as easy as any other person would dial a phone. He makes it look effortless. Which only succeeds in making me that much more curious about his situation.

It takes me a minute, still watching the skilled musician before I realize that I'm going to be late if I stand here any longer. And I'm faintly disappointed because I didn't get to talk to him this time. I don't have any change either, which I feel a little bad about as I shuffle along down the sidewalk, weaving around the small group of pedestrians lingering to watch the performance.

"Thanks."

The sudden lack of music and abrupt switch for human voice made me pause. Actually, I stopped walking altogether, nearly stumbling over my own feet. Recovering quickly from my own ridiculous reaction, I half-turned back, feeling those eyes on me, strangely attractive as they were. I made eye contact again—three seconds this time—and managed a small smile.

It's kind of awkward, really, because it wasn't one of those situations that called for anything as sincere as a smile. Not a real one anyway. But Saxophone Boy is satisfied and returns to playing somewhere in the chorus of what sounds like the theme to Sesame Street.

I laugh a little under my breath at the fleeting exchange, though it's more like a conversation taking place days apart at a time, stepping up my pace because I need to find a cab soon. Traffic can be so unforgiving.

G–G

_February 17 -Afternoon-_

Coincidently, I hate job interviews almost as much as I hate unemployment. But if I had to choose between the two, I'd have to say the interview was the lesser of two evils. I work up just enough attentive expressions and answers that I know they want to hear to be mildly confident about the possibility of landing the job. Like I said earlier, it's not huge, definitely not where I want to be, career-wise, but it's something to pay the bills until...whenever. I don't know.

I _used_ to be a columnist. Like an actual columnist, with my little picture and my name and a daily column in an actual newspaper that the general public actually read. According to statistics anyway.

I _used_ to rate hotels. You know, stay in a hotel and review the atmosphere and the service and the food. And I was good at it. No, I was damn good at it, and it wasn't like I had any obligations tying me down, like a family or spouse, that would keep me from traveling the country. It was my perfect, perfect job.

Before I was downsized, anyway. Before I was fired.

Now it was just painful to think about. My perfect, perfect ex-job and my still existent but still equally painful section of reviews that were actually published as part of a legitimate travel book.

What does that all mean? In a nutshell, at a certain part of my life I got fucked over, and there's nothing I can do about it. And that's it, basically.

The cab ride home is ridiculously long, considering the distance and I wonder if it might've just been easier to walk. While the car is stalled in traffic, I decide to just pay my fare and get out, mostly because it would take what little money I had left to sit there and wait. I heard walking is better for you anyway.

I'm approaching _that_ street again, and I can't help but notice the quiet. Guess Saxophone Boy left already, went to find another street to play, maybe. I wish I knew his name, then I wouldn't have to constantly refer to him as Saxophone Boy. Though I'm sure that's what everyone calls him in their mind. Boy with Sax. Or Saxophone Man.

I'm a little surprised to find that he's still there, in the same spot when I make it to the bus stop with the underwear model graffiti. He glances up at me briefly. I notice he's collecting the scattered money from the inside of his case and stuffing it in his deep pockets when our eyes meet for the third time in two days and I feel corny just knowing that I'm keeping count.

"Hi." He speaks first, crouched on his knees on the sidewalk so I have to look down to properly regard him. His eyes are the brightest blue that I've ever seen and I can't really think of much to say other than--

"Hey." I greet in a short puff of breath, sinking onto the chilled bench a few gray squares of sidewalk away from him and his case. Despite the fact that I sat down and all, I almost let the small beginnings of conversation end there but his black-lacquered saxophone catches my eye and I can't help but wonder out loud. "Why do you play out here anyway?"

He blinks and his hands are busy disassembling the saxophone but he doesn't even have to look down to know what he's doing and I find that oddly impressive. "That's kind of rude, don't you think?"

"Oh. Ah—Sorry." I add clumsily, floundering for a second as my thoughts tripped over themselves. Great, I offended him already.

"I mean, you didn't introduce yourself." Saxophone Boy-Man-Guy supplemented with a quirk of his eyebrow that disappeared beneath his hat and his bangs.

I frowned as he stood, brushing off his pants and extended his hand forward, wondering if people actually still did things like this. Formally introducing themselves, I mean.

"I'm Sora." He says and I find the name oddly fitting as I shake his hand, feeling the cold of his fingers contrast with the warmth of his glove.

"Riku." I say, settling back on the bench, considering the person I had now had a name to refer to and wondered if that actually meant something. I still don't know him any better than I did a second ago, and I'm even more apprehensive to inquire about the circumstances that brought him to this particular street, circumstances that I suppose aren't really any of my business anyway.

"You live in this neighborhood?" Sora asks. "I see you like almost every day, so I figure you must live in the area, right?"

I blink at that "every day" comment, curling my hand around the tail of my scarf. "Yeah, I live a couple streets over."

Sora nods, inspecting his saxophone critically, making a face at the world-worn metal, the little dings and dents around the bell.

"So, you'll be playing here tomorrow?" I ask, still very much intrigued, because he was the single most interesting thing going on in my life right now, and it's not like I had much to do tomorrow anyway. Maybe I could ask him out for a drink or something. Because in all honesty, he is pretty cute, and who can resist anyway, right?

"Ah, no. Actually, I gotta hit up Rayburn's," He tilts the neck of his instrument down so he can point out the broken Popsicle stick on the mouthpiece, showing me that the edge was frayed and chipped. "It was my last one."

"The, uh, wood thing?" I ask lamely, vaguely recognizing Rayburn's as a music store. Sora fingers a small knob on a metal fitting placed around the black mouthpiece, his eyebrows coming together in a brief look of confusion.

He then laughs, light and melodic like his own instrument, adjusting the same small knob until the whole piece came loose. "It's called a reed." He removed the little flat stick and pushed on it with his thumb until the tip bowed and bent like wet cardboard. "See, it's really soft."

"Oh." I grimace inwardly at my lack of stimulating input. I'm annoyed that I'm even slightly disappointed that I won't see him for another day.

Sora places his fragile reed inside a small plastic box just big enough to fit it and several others like it, pulling apart his instrument and setting it carefully in the specially formed grooves in the velvet lined inside of the case. He snaps it closed, holding on to the handle as he righted himself. "Guess I'll see you around then." He smiles briefly, taking a few steps in the opposite direction of the street my apartment was on.

I nearly jump in his way in an effort to stop him before he got too far, visibly surprising us both. Sora laughs awkwardly, his eyes a little wide, probably assuming I was some kind of lunatic. Before I even get the chance to speculate on what had gotten into me lately, I'm already asking him out for a drink, all the while panicking in the back of my head.

Sora frowns, head tilting a little to side, his mouth set in a sparse line that neither conveyed disgust nor apprehension. It was a neutral face, like one would have while deep in thought.

"I don't drink." He confesses with another neutral expression, blinking absently.

I just kind of stand there, brain working entirely slow as it frantically attempts to reciprocate for my suddenly dashed plans. In my haste, I didn't bother to think up a Plan B and I can't help but think that it was moments like these that were to blame for my lack of spontaneity.

"I could eat though." Sora offers, switching his case to his other hand and shaking his fingers out. I'm grateful for his suggestion, actually, because I think the words scuba-diving were crossing my mind and this far up north, the closest thing the ocean was a small strip of frozen beach. Also grateful because the last date I went on was...Ah...when did I have a life again? Some time in the last hundred years, I knew that much. "And if you're offering to buy, I don't see any problem with joining you. You know Katz's?"

"Uh, yeah, East Houston, right?" I say, mentally pumping my fist in victory as I start to walk and Sora followed, easily matching my pace with his saxophone case lightly swinging in the air between us.

–

"I don't really like talking about myself." Sora admitted, swiping his thick knit cap off with one hand, unraveling his scarf with the other as we settled down at a table. Right next to the window, with my back to the door.

Sora swung the black case into an empty chair before sitting down himself and I sit across from him, raising an eyebrow at his comment. I had only asked him how long he had lived in the city. He had a look about him, like he didn't quite belong in Manhattan any more than he belonged out on a street corner in February, playing an old saxophone that he treated more like an infant than an instrument. Who wouldn't ask?

"I noticed." I comment, realizing that it wasn't the first time he dodged one of my questions. I lean forward on my elbow, regarding him briefly, his tousled dark hair and luminescent blue eyes that were a little more subdued indoors. "I'm just trying to figure you out."

He laughs a little, spinning the salt shaker idly with his fingertips. "Why?"

I shrug. "I don't know; you're different. You're interesting."

"I'm not interesting." He declared, twirling the salt shaker until it fell on its side. I notice he's wearing a high school class ring on his left hand but he turns it under his finger with his thumb before I could get a good look at it.

"Been out of school long?" I ask, looking at him a little differently after seeing that ring, slightly mortified to realize that without all the layers and the hat and the scarf, he looks closer to a teenager than anything.

The face he makes is close to annoyance before he evenly says, "I'm 20 years old."

"Just making sure." I defend with a flippancy that I don't really feel, glancing back toward the counter, and the smell of cooking brisket and roast beef and onions.

"You make a habit out of picking up kids or something?"

I blink and it takes me a second to realize he's teasing me. "No." I refrain from telling him he looks like an eighth grader because I have the distinct feeling that he wouldn't appreciate my sarcasm any more than I appreciate his.

"Ah, don't sweat it. I get that a lot." He smiles, tugging at the sleeve of his thermal that peeks out from the edges of his t-shirt. "I have my mom's genes, and we all look pretty young, so..." He shrugs.

"Must be hard." I say.

Sora sighs, slumping in his chair. I can feel his leg brush against mine under the table, but I'm sure it was unintentional. "Look, I really don't like talking about myself." He wrinkles his nose. "It's too conceited."

"Give me a general overview then." I'm being oddly relentless today.

He rolled his eyes. "Alright, fine. But you have to answer my questions too. Even the personal ones." He adds with a bit of an adolescent smirk.

I scoff. "That's usually what happens at these types of things."

Sora smiles, toying with the salt shaker again. "Are we on a date?"

"Better be. I'm paying." I say, feeling a rogue little flutter in my chest at the fact that he looks so pleased.

Okay, so Sora's a bit eccentric, I find out. He's been playing the saxophone since he was 9, and the one he had now used to be his grandfather's, (named Cecilia after his grandfather's mistress). He has the sheet music of 106 songs memorized in his head. And with a little persuasion, he tells me that when he was 15, he once ran away from home to join a tribute band to the Doors and only made it as far as Jersey before the police caught up with him.

"I also used to be in a ska band."

_Ugh._

"I'm sorry."

"What? Ska was very popular."

"Yeah, in the 60's." I say around my sandwich that is literally an orgasm in my mouth.

"No, no. That's skinhead music. I'm talking early 80's." Sora declares adamantly. "Ska punk. That's when brass and woodwind really became like, significant."

I shrug because it really isn't a topic of my expertise. "I guess."

Sora chews pensively, blinking his dark lashes in my direction. "So, like, what do you do all day? I mean, you're here with me on a Thursday afternoon, well, night. Job hunt not going well?"

I'm surprised to see that it's almost 8. "I had an interview today, actually."

"Oh? For what?"

"Newspaper. Journalist." I say finally, after swallowing.

"Like Clark Kent." Sora comments, at which I snort. "Just stay away from China."

"Excuse me, China?"

"Yeah, the People's Republic. They arrest you guys like, all the time."

I smile weakly. I don't plan on ever going to China and even the possibility of me actually landing a job reporting overseas is pretty slim, but I don't tell him that.

I'm just about to ask him about his own employment situation, when I'm interrupted by slender hips and long legs standing at my side for no apparent reason other than to stare across the table. "Sora?"

Sora takes a long second to smile as he rises from his chair, hugging the tiny framed girl. I take in her fiery colored hair and sparkly eyeliner and dangly purple star earrings, and little jean skirt that she had to freezing her ass off in, and briefly wonder why this strange young woman was interrupting my alleged date.

"Kairi." Sora says, and I sit there, blinking at the side of his head. "Oh! Kai, this is, um, Riku. Riku, Kairi."

I shake her small hand, which is still cold from outside.

"Oh, Riku. I haven't seen you around. What's your major?"

I raise an eyebrow. "Major?" I already have my degree. In Journalism.

"He doesn't go to school, Kai." Sora rolls his eyes like she should've known that. For a fleeting moment I wonder just how old I look to this girl.

"Oh, sorry." Kairi flustered, switching her little purse between her hands. "I always do that. I'm just so used to Sora dating guys his own age. I mean, not that you're old. It's just Sora's kinda--"

"Kai. Shut up." Sora interrupts, thankfully, hand over his eyes. "Jesus."

"Sorry!" She giggles, apologizing to me again. "I should go, before I say anything else stupid. Duh."

"Airhead." Sora mutters.

"Be nice." Kairi told him, hands ineffectually on her hips. "Or I'll tell your date all about your sophomore year when you--"

"Okay! Shit."

I frown, glancing between them and the tension that formed almost tangibly.

"I gotta go, but call me later, okay, Sora?"

"Yeah, whatever." Sora watches her leave, still standing beside the table. He looks tense so I say something.

"Who was she?"

Sora blinked, returning to his seat. "Kai? Just a girl I went to school with. She's studying to be a dancer at Juilliard."

My eyes widen just a little. I'm mildly impressed. "You went to Juilliard?"

"Since elementary school. Where did you think I picked up the mad sax skills?" He laughs and I can practically see the tension rolling off of him. He picks up his sandwich and resumes eating and it's all just too much for me. Something really doesn't add up here.

"I can ask now, right?"

Sora frowns, licking mayo off the corner of his mouth. "Ask what?"

"Why you play out on the street for tips. What's that about? I mean, you're good. You're really good and you went to fucking Juilliard. It doesn't make any sense." I watch Sora shrug his shoulders heavily. He plays on nonchalance, but I can see right through it.

"The music biz isn't what I thought it was." He supplies vaguely.

When all I offer is a frown, he shrugs again.

"It's just...hard."

He looks a little upset so I let it go, feeling I can easily relate to that sentiment.

–

_February 17 -Evening-_

"Whoo! I'm full." Sora say, clapping a hand over his stomach, hidden by his layers of heavy coat.

We make our way down the sidewalk, avoiding slick looking ice spots, Sora's saxophone case swinging in his other hand. It's starting to snow and sadly neither of us have the money for a cab so we really have no choice but to walk.

"You really like my music?" Sora asks me out of nowhere and I look down as I step over a large patch of ice.

"Yeah, you're really talented."

"Thanks." Sora smiles. "I always loved music, since I was a kid. I don't know. It was like, my dream, I wanted to play in the Doors since I was six-years-old."

"I think you're about thirty years too late." I point out needlessly and he makes a face at the sidewalk.

"I know that. I just, I had the hugest crush on Jim Morrison when I was little. I mean, I had only seen him on album covers back then, but I just knew I had to meet him, you know?" He frowns. "I didn't know he was already dead. I just remember crying so hard when I finally found out."

I offer him a little smile and he returns it, weakly. Ah, childhood memories.

"I always thought Marlon Brando was pretty hot." I say. "You know, in Streetcar."

Sora laughs, swinging his case. "I agree."

"Hey, can you play me something?"

"Ah," He looks apologetic, blowing out a breath that I can see in the air in front of his face. "It's too cold."

"Oh." I say. Right. It's nighttime anyway. Wouldn't want to wake up the whole neighborhood.

"I could sing it to you though." Sora offers, wrinkling his nose cutely.

"Oh, you sing too?" I snort. "Is there anything you can't do?"

"I can't fix cars." He says, burying his chin in his scarf to avoid the cold. "I can't dance and I don't know how to sew. I can't balance a check book and I'm a terrible pastry chef."

I laugh out loud, curling my hands in my pockets. "I can balance my check book."

Sora smiles at this and for some reason, the back of my mind is deeming this a good moment to go in for a kiss. And why not? He's only like a foot or so away and he's cute and obviously good company. I stop walking and after a second or two, he does the same, his gait tapering off into a few half-steps.

"Is this where you live?" He asks, looking up at the building we stop in front of. The little latches on his case glitter in the streetlight.

I give him a second to realize that we're in front of dentist's office and I step a little closer. It's warmer where he is and I can't resist leaning against him for a short moment before I take that extra step of space, and Sora breathes in as our lips bump lightly together. I set it up, so I graciously let him take the rest, which he does, tilting his head and eyes falling closed and the warmth of his mouth is quite possibly the most pleasant remedy for the cold.

I feel the faded palm of his fingerless gloves gently cup my cheek and his lips move slightly, pressing a little harder, almost hungry but not quite as aggressive. I'm not ashamed to admit that I sighed against his lips before we parted and Sora looked kind of lost. But judging from his smile, it's a good kind of lost.

"Mm," Sora hums finally, briefly running his tongue over his lips. We haven't moved yet, so the action sends a tiny shiver up my spine totally unrelated to the temperature. "Wasn't expecting that."

I smile. "I think you handled it pretty well regardless." I say, lightly kissing him again. He's more prepared for it this time, setting his saxophone down so both hands are free. Lips both warm and soft are against mine once and I'm exhilarated at the slick movement of tongue that I welcome with a strange amount of eagerness. His chest feels hard beneath my hands but I can't really tell through all the coat I'd have to feel through. I imagine taking the coat off somewhere more private, wondering what his skin looks like completely uncovered by trivial clothes.

I know I might be pushing it, but I ask him anyway. Judging from the kiss, I have about a 60 percent chance of getting him into my apartment. "Wanna come home with me?" I murmured into the small amount of room between us.

Sora smiles and I take it as a good sign that he doesn't break eye contact after I ask. "I probably shouldn't." He shrugs, apologetic when I look disappointed. "I have a bad habit of going home with guys I just met."

"So?" I'm reaching.

He licks his lips and I groan in the back of my mind. _You're torturing me, Sora._ He smirks, looking at me from under his eyelashes. "You're an enabler."

"I'm also a good person." I say and I manage to get in a kiss right under his jaw before he protests.

"Riku," He breathes and I feel a sense of satisfaction wash over me as I got him to whine and say my name all at once.

I pull it back, reluctantly, figuring I probably shouldn't make him do something he'll regret. "Maybe some other time then." I offer, and his eyes narrow warmly.

"Okay." He says softly, cheeks flushed from the cold and the kiss and just being generally close. I regret my gentlemanly actions at once, sighing through my nose. Oh well. Next time then.

It then occurs to me that I don't have his phone number and the same realization seems to hit him at the same moment because he then pulls out his cell phone and instructs me to put my number in. I give him my phone and he does the same, typing quietly. I eye his class ring again and laugh to myself about the Superman logo wallpaper on his cell.

Cute. Definitely cute.

–

_Yeah, ignore my epic FAIL at updating my other multi-chap. I enjoyed writing this anyway. I needed a quick break from Hypervigilance anyway. That story brings me down sometimes. lol _

_Review if you're feeling it, so I can know if I should continue this or not. Or at least, how long to make it. Based on reviews, it could be like a three shot. Maybe five._


	2. Jazz Club

_Jeez, sorry this was so late guys. I kind of lost inspiration for a while there, but I got it back so...that's all that matters._

**Love in the Key of G**

**Act Two : Jazz Club**

**-**

_February 28 -Afternoon-_

Sora actually called me the next day, much to my surprise. I'd thought he at least wait three days or so, considering I see him practically all the time, both on the way to work and the trip back home again. I'll usually stop and listen to him play for a few minutes because a majority of the time, he's in the middle of a song, and I don't want to interrupt.

Anyway, we had lunch. Veggie pizza, mine plain, and slathered in hot sauce for Sora.

Today, I bought him clam chowder from uptown and for the first time, I begin to realize that our main relationship seems to be heavily proceeded by food. But Sora is always hungry when we meet up and I guess feeding him just became sort of a habit.

My feet throb a little in my shoes as I settle myself down on my usual bench, not so usual, now that I had a full time job, and I try hard not to think about the assignment I have for tonight. Some research thing that wouldn't take too long to figure out. Sora is playing a little to my left, as usual, something simple and relaxing, and I silently thank him for being so inadvertently thoughtful.

The song ends soon after I sit down and Sora leaves his saxophone hanging from his neck strap as he curls up on the bench. The shiny black brass propped between his crossed legs as he accepted the offered Styrofoam cup from my hand. He looks small wrapped up in his Carhartt coat and his eyes nearly disappear under his bangs as he hunched over the cup, making wildly appreciative sounds at the thick tendrils of steam that pour out when he cracks open the top.

"Cold out today." I point out needlessly, curling my hands inside my coat pockets. There's another container balanced on the bench between us, but my fingers are much too content to stay where they are to bother picking it up.

"Mmhmm." The noise Sora makes is hardly a response, but more like the savage sounds of a man starving to death and finding the last scrap of his food for the first time.

I chuckle quietly, "That good, huh?"

Sora's eyes flicker up briefly from the rim of his cup, the edges of his eyelids creasing with a smile. "I'm a fat kid at heart." He says, muffled by the container. I notice he's holding his spoon with two fingers, the others hidden inside the edge of his sleeve, and I pay far too much attention to the way his tongue glides over his lips when he finishes a spoonful of chowder. The only way I could think of to casually redirect my attention was to glance back over my shoulder at the busy street, pretending as if some noise distracted me.

"Ah, I meant to say, 'Good Afternoon, Riku.'" Sora says, chewing the edge of his spoon. He looks mildly annoyed, at himself, I suppose. Then he shifts his eyes to the side, and the expression disappears abnormally fast as his eyes size me up in a kind of slow, drifting way that isn't too subtle.

I wonder if he knows how his eyes look when he does that, if he knows that they betray some of his mystery in that too-wide, obvious way. "Is it really that important?" I also wonder if he can see my poor, mishandled and blatant infatuation with those eyes.

He shrugs. "It's good manners."

I'm not really sure what I should say to that, so just sink a little in my seat, my heels scraping on the sidewalk. I conclude that Sora is kind of oddly charming, but for the life of me, I can't figure out why.

"_Good manners_." I scoff, attempting to appear casual even while the metal bench is freezing my ass through my jeans. "Your parents beat that into your head as a child?"

Predictably, Sora makes that face again, a mixture of offense and annoyance with a tinge of amusement that kept me from taking him completely serious. "_No_. It's common courtesy, you jerk. Parents have nothing to do with it."

"What a mature comment." I say dryly.

"Some people would call that rude, you know." Sora leans sideways, his arm pressing against mine through his coat. It's hard to tell if the action was intentional or not, but I find myself not caring either way.

"Who? Your parents?"

"I knew you would say that." Sora rolled his eyes, scraping the edges of his cup with his spoon. "Your predictability is astounding."

"We're all just a reflection of our parents." I add, knowing that it was perfectly true in my case. Of course, I had always been very close with my mother. We were practically the same person.

"Not me." Sora proclaims almost immediately, barely giving himself the time to swallow properly. It brings up the question of his own relationship with his family, and that incident he told me about, where he ran away from home for a band.

"Really?"

"Yes, really."

I shake my head, and for a second I can't believe how serious his voice is. Especially considering the topic. "You're cute, Sora. You're really cute."

Even through the thick layers and collar of his coat and scarf piled up around his neck, I could see him flush just a little. Just enough to boost my confidence.

"Don't say stuff like that." Sora mutters, digging his chin into his scarf. He curls his cup closer, scooping almost dejectedly at the still hot chunks of potatoes and clam.

I laugh briefly at his expense, balancing the heel of my right shoe atop the toe of my left one. It would probably be a good idea to change the subject right about now. "So why did you run away?"

Sora makes a strangled noise to my left, dropping his plastic spoon in his cup to bring a curled fist up to his mouth. I give his back a few sharp whacks, though I doubt that smacking rarely ever helped anyone choking to death. The piece of whatever seems to dislodge from his throat and Sora coughs harshly into his fist for a few long seconds.

"Ow." He hisses miserably.

"You alright?"

"You hit pretty damn hard." Sora rumbles, cringing as I settle a hand on his shoulder.

I don't even attempt looking apologetic. "Sorry." I chuckle mostly to myself. "I don't know the Heimlich."

"Obviously."

"So?" I say, trying to return to the previous conversation, before Sora started to die beside me. "So, why did you run away? Family issues?"

Sora clears his throat, eyes narrowed and understandably irritated. I can't say I blame him too much, but I'm more concerned with his answer than his feelings.

"There is no 'why'." He says finally, his tight expression relaxing considerably.

"Meaning?"

"I didn't have a reason. It was just a feeling. Instinct. Like birds migrating or something."

I watch him for a long moment, unsure if he was being totally serious or not. If it was a joke, I would've laughed right away because comparing yourself to a bird was pretty damn ridiculous, but he was being completely and utterly truthful. Birds migrating, huh?

"Weren't you scared?"

"Not really." Sora shrugs, frowning as if replicating the past in his head. "It wasn't the first time I was that far away from home. I wasn't afraid at all." He shifts a little, slouching enough to bear some of his weight on my arm. "Hop a bus and ride it to end of the line. Take a train out of state, clear across the country." He smiles and I can feel his warmth from sitting so close. "Hitch-hiking is a whole lot easier than it sounds."

I hum quietly, my shoulder dropping to fit more comfortably underneath him. I feel vaguely envious of his mentality, so carefree and detached. I had never once done any of those things. I happened to enjoy the safety of my comfort zone before, but now, I couldn't help but wonder if all this time I was missing out on the really great things about life.

A tiny shift of movement and a brief tickle of extremely soft-feeling hair and I'm mildly surprised to discover that he's comfortable enough to rest his head on the top of my shoulder and it's an oddly satisfying sensation.

"Mmm," Sora breathes close to my ear and I shiver, a reaction that could've just as easily been from the winter chill. "I could go to sleep right here, if it wasn't so damn cold."

"My apartment is close by if you wanna go warm up there." Note that I'm totally not thinking about getting him into bed at this very moment. Honestly. I really wasn't.

Sora perks up a little at that, his saxophone, Cecilia, bumping against his knee as he sat up straighter. I miss the feeling of his weight almost instantly. "Do you live by yourself?"

"Uh, no. I have a roommate, actually."

"Hm," Sora looks thoughtful for a second, uncrossing his legs so his feet drop heavily on the sidewalk. "Think they're home right now?"

Oh, ho ho. _Sora_.

For the record, this is the point where I start thinking about sex. Or at the very least, some extensive making out. Either way, it involves getting that damn concealing coat of his off.

"Why?" I can't help the smirk that my face defaults to. "You trying to pull the moves on me, Sora?"

Sora laughs, though not without a noticeable blush spreading across his nose and cheeks. How cute. "I don't think I like your tone."

"You don't have to like it." I say easily, stretching my arms over the back of the bench.

"Besides, I think you'd be the one pulling _the moves_." Sora declares with a little smile, turning in his seat to toss his cup in the garbage can to the left of the bench. "I'm dreadfully afraid of making the first move."

"I find that hard to believe."

He smirks slowly. "I'm sorry if I give off the impression of a sexual deviant, 'cause I'm really not."

"Shame." I slouch, letting my arms fall to my sides so I can stuff my hands back in my pockets. "I had a bit of a fantasy of sexing up the saxophone player."

Sora makes a face, pulling his neck strap off over his head, the band getting caught on his hat and dropping it into his lap. He scrambled a hand through his hair, clutching his coveted saxophone in his other hand. I decide that he looked much better that way. Dark hair free and wily and, for the most part, out of his eyes. "Somehow, I don't think Cecilia would very interested in a threesome."

What an absurd comment."I said fantasy, not fetish."

Sora starts disassembling the instrument, always with the same precise speed. "My mistake." He says, teasingly. After checking over everything at least twice, I'm expecting him to ask if we're ready to go, but instead he points at the second cup on the bench, cooling in the space between us. "You gonna eat that?"

"Ah, nah. You can have it." I say, figuring that I'm not really that hungry anyway.

"I don't get a lot of chances to eat." He explains, cracking open the top with a shrug. Makes sense. Come to think of it, I don't think I've ever seen him move from his street, because he's always in the same place when I pass him in morning and when I come home.

"Sure." I reply, offering to hold Cecilia while we walk.

G-G

"You weren't kidding about 'nearby', huh?" Sora says once I slow to a stop in front of my building, literally two blocks away from where we started. I think about that moment under the streetlight, that first kiss that I still can't believe happened, because usually I'm not nearly anywhere close to that impulsive. I remember the feeling of being pressed against him, of the taste of his lips, and how I fought the urge to tackle him every morning I saw him. Out there, playing his beautiful music with his 'mad sax skills' that he picked up from Juilliard.

I can feel him looking at me with his worldly eyes and the small smile he gives me is an expected one, but no less appreciated.

"Told you." I say, briefly wondering if he thought about me as often as I did him as I push open the door to the foyer. It's a useless thought, only because I'd never have the courage to ask him. For fear of the answer.

"Well, this is me." I say, gently setting the saxophone case on the floor by the hall closet as Sora invites himself in, finger-combing his hair free of the light snow that began to fall outside. He starts unwinding his scarf as he comes into the seating area, clear blue eyes taking in the room around him.

It's not a terribly big space, neither is it cramped-ass tiny either. It has a kitchen, two bedrooms and a shared bathroom. Medium sized living room. And a nook that you could _technically_ call a dining area, but I wouldn't recommend it. Anyway, it's home. And rent-controlled.

"Cozy." Sora comments, and I watch a little too carefully as he strips off his scarf and heavy coat, discarding both in the armchair stationed beside the couch. He starts tugging off his gloves as he seats himself on the couch and I can't help but think he seems just a little bit too comfortable for a person visiting someone's else home for the first time.

I decide to chalk it up as being one of his many quirks, removing my own coat and hanging it up in the closet by the door. I feel much more confident in my own space, asking him if he wanted a drink as I duck into the kitchen, checking the refrigerator to make sure I have any drinks to give.

"Water's fine." Sora replies from the living room and I shrug, getting him a glass and filling it under the tap. "Thanks." He says, taking a shallow drink and placing it on the coffee table. He's wearing a silk screened t-shirt of the Doors over his thermal and I almost laugh aloud at that, but then Sora glances at me and his eyes are just too damn blue and I really can't concentrate on anything else.

"You're a pretty nice guy, huh?" Sora says, fingernails idly picking at each other as I settle onto the cushion beside him. The couch is kind of one of those over-stuffed, too-soft couches, the ones where you sit down and everything just kind of migrates into one central point. And this is what Sora does when I fully drop my weight down, he drifts toward me a fraction as the cushions sink. If he notices this at all, he doesn't show it, choosing to drift instead readjusting himself.

I laugh. "If you say so."

"No, you are." Sora says, stretching his legs out under the table. "I could be a serial killer, you know."

"More like serial eater."

The face he makes this time is more like mock-offended. "Hey, I'm a growing boy. Growing boys gots to eat." His playful expression melts away and he looks a little more serious and I can't decide if that's a bad thing or not. The topic overall wasn't an incriminating one. He only said I was nice, which technically I suppose is true. "No, you're just—you're very trusting."

I blink and I just know my face has to look pretty surprised. Still, wasn't that a good thing? But the way he was saying it made it sound quite the opposite. "And...is there some reason that I shouldn't trust you?"

"There could be." Sora says, finally, cryptically. His eyes flicker up to mine and for a long second of tense silence I feel like he's going to say that he really is a fucking serial killer.

The sound of a quick piano scale interrupts the moment and Sora breaks the stiff stare-down to dig into his front pocket, retrieving the phone with the Superman logo wallpaper, flipping it open. Because of how close we are, I can briefly see the word 'LEET' in the text message before he closes it and brings up his contact list. Muttering what sounds like Kairi under his breath.

"Sorry. That's her emergency code." He looks somewhat embarrassed for a second, then apologetic as he had to explain why he was stalling the conversation for a text message. "It's stupid, but if I don't call her back, I'll drive myself crazy wondering."

I sit back on the couch so there's a little more room between us. "It's okay. I'll wait."

"I'm really sorry. One minute." He promises, holding up a finger to better demonstrate 'one minute'.

Sora stands and rounds the side of the couch to stand closer to the kitchen. The most I hear of the conversation is the initial hello and something along the lines of "What's wrong?"

I can't get Sora's last words out of my head. _There could be. What the hell?_ I tell myself it's probably nothing because usually one person's perception of 'shit you should really know about me before we go any farther' is completely different from another's. Like, for instance, I've been told before that I snore, and in the situation that we'd ever sleep together, I'd be sure to warn him of that in advance.

The paranoid side of me really hopes whatever he was going to say ends up being something stupid and asinine like a little light snoring.

"Sorry," Sora apologizes again for the third time as he gets off the phone, tucking the cell back in his pants pocket. "The ditz lost her keys. Luckily, I have the spare."

"Luckily." I repeat.

Sora's just standing there in his sort of skinny gray jeans and his t-shirt that seemed to hug to his chest regardless of any thermal he has on underneath. I wish he didn't have to look so good, then I wouldn't have to look so annoyed that he was leaving prematurely. Again.

"I kinda disappointed you again, didn't I?" He says with a frown that doesn't really look right on him.

"No. Fuck, Sora, don't worry about it." I stand, fully prepared to usher him out the door, because I had the distinct feeling that he would keep standing there, regardless of any friend in need of his assistance. "Go. Go, help your...Kairi."

Sora grimaces tightly. "Fucking girls." He sighs, stepping forward so I could pass off his coat and scarf to him. "I really wanted to spend more time with you today."

"It's cool. Really." I assure him. Sora smiles and I feel his fingers on the front of my shirt before they curl and twist in the fabric and I allow myself to be pulled forward a fraction of an inch. His bottom lip bumps briefly against mine before our mouths are sealed tightly together and I groan somewhere in the back of my head because _fuck_ it's been like a week or so since I first kissed him and _goddamn_ I couldn't for the life of me figure out why we weren't doing this every day.

Sora tilted his head a little, just enough that everything just kinda pushed closer together and deeper and his tongue was slick on the roof of my mouth and then he pulled away and I think he might've actually bitten me but I could hardly care enough to tell.

"You really are a nice guy." Sora says around a harsh breath, smoothing the front of my shirt down with his whole hand. "We'll have sex next time. I promise." He pledges, obviously joking. I imagine the body underneath the silkscreen Doors t-shirt and the frayed, faded jeans and honestly wonder if my imagination even does the real thing any justice.

"Don't promise a thing like that." I laugh, only like 40 percent kidding and I really should be ashamed of those statistics.

"I'm serious." He declared, shaking out his coat so he could slip his arms properly in the thick sleeves. "I feel like I own you that much. You know, after all the food you keep buying me."

"Really?" I smirk, handing him his scarf and gloves, one at a time, and the heart beating in my throat hasn't calmed down in the least. "Sex for food, Sora? That seems pretty sexual deviant to me."

Sora gives a soft chuckle, rolling his eyes. I wanted to kiss him again, longer and harder and involving more hands, but like the perfect little cockblocker that it was, Sora's phone chimed again and I had to settle for something much more simple and light, a brief, warm press of lips before he called Kairi again. Speaking to me over his shoulder in some kind of stage whisper a quick goodbye as he pulled the door open.

G-G

_February 28 -Evening-_

I'm still thinking about that damn kiss when my roommate gets home. I'm cooking dinner for myself, always with a little extra because Tidus will just steal some anyway, and the fact that the kiss won't get out of my head almost causes some major burns to my stir fry.

"Do I have any mail?" Tidus asks me, idly shuffling through the kitchen, gathering plates and the silverware necessary for dinner. He yawns and blinks at me for a long second before I fully register what he said and point out the small cluster of envelopes on the end table in the living room. "Bills." He says with a bit of a grimace and I shrug.

We eat standing up in the kitchen, or at least Tidus does, I sit on the counter. It's a weird relationship we have, me and my roommate. We don't really talk to each other, and it's not for lack of trying. God knows Tidus tries, but most times, there's rarely much to say past rent and bills and who's turn it is to do the dishes. I stay out of his way, and for the most part, he stays out of mine.

So while sitting on the counter and lightly picking at my dinner, I can't say I'm not in the least bit surprised when the next thing that comes out of Tidus' mouth isn't a comment about my cooking.

"What's in that box?"

"Huh?" I blink, looking up from my plate, red pepper hanging from the end of my fork. "What box?"

Tidus cocks his head to side, gesturing with a nod. "The one by the door." He chewed absently. "I almost broke my neck hanging up my coat."

Box? By the door?

"Shit. Cecilia." I hiss, setting down my plate on the counter as I wonder if I should at least call Sora to tell him I'm holding onto it for him.

"Who?"

"It's a saxophone." I explain, digging around for my cell, realizing that I left it in the living room. I jump off the counter and Tidus follows me, his expression one of mild interest.

"Named Cillia?"

"Cecilia." I correct, not even sure why I even put forward the effort. I find my phone somewhere in the folds of the cushions of the couch. There's one missed call. Oops.

Sora answers after two rings. "You have it, right? I didn't lose it somewhere, did I?" His voice sounds a little panicked and I feel bad for not having my phone on me the first time he called.

"No, no, I have her. She's safe." I reassure him, smiling unconsciously. Tidus stands in the door to the kitchen kind of awkwardly and I know he's waiting for me to tell him what the hell is going on, but I ignore that for the time being.

Sora sighed heavily and I vaguely hear him mutter 'Thank God.'

"You alright?" I ask him, leaning against the back of the couch, my arm folded under my chin.

"Hell no. That's a 70 year old saxophone. It's worth more than my life." He says, the edginess of panic in his voice not totally gone yet.

I blink, glancing at the inconspicuous black case in the corner. I can't believe that thing is so old. "Oh right. It was your grandfather's, wasn't it?" I inquire, remembering him telling me something like that on our first date.

"Yeah. It's all I have left of him." Sora sighs again and he sounds just a little weary.

"I'll take good care of her. Promise." I say.

"Don't let her get lonely."

"Of course not. I'll stay up all night if I have to."

Sora laughs and I'm a little relieved. "Thanks." He says finally and I nod for absolutely no reason because I'm definitely on the phone. "Now I _really_ owe you." His voice lowers slightly at that and I remember his promise, unconsciously biting my lip.

"Is that right?" I murmur and the low voice thing must catching because I practically purr this into the phone.

Sora chuckles, a soft rumble over the speakers, humming in affirmation. "Lemme take you out this time." He says, his voice sexy in that kind of tired/suggestive way.

How can I refuse? "Okay."

"I got a job. Or gig, whatever the kids are calling it these days." He says. "Anyway, it's kind of like background music, you know, a house band or something. At a jazz club downtown."

"Wow," I say, sinking down in the couch cushion. "That's great." Tidus must've lost interest at some point because he had disappeared back into the kitchen.

"So, you should come see me play Saturday. And then we can do whatever when I get off." The word 'whatever' seems so much more significant when he says it. How can I refuse?

G-G

_March 5 -Evening-_

I come in alone. The club is kind of hole-in-the-wall, but in a good way. It's not too crowded and it's way warmer than it looks, even with the chic exposed brick walls at every far end of the room. The tables are set up in a bit of a maze and it takes me a minute to navigate through them to find an empty seat. The stage is small and the house band is already set up and playing something smooth and relaxing. I try to spot Sora, squinting through the smoky dimness of the purple lighting as I made my way to my seat.

"Riku!"

I hear the loud whisper over the music and for one bewildered second, I think it's Sora. Except the voice is too high to be him. Because it isn't him.

It takes me about a half a second to find the sparkly dangly earring girl from Katz's. Kairi. Of course she'd be here. She's only interrupted every date I've had with Sora so far. Her slinky, sequined dress sparkles even in the low light, so it doesn't really take much to see her. I take the empty seat to her left after she moves her little purse from the chair.

"Hey! Sora wanted me to sit with you." Kairi explains right away, reaching into the tiny bag to reapply her lip gloss. I notice she has an M stamped onto her hand and for a second I can't believe that a place like this even does that sort of thing. "This is exciting, isn't it? Sora's first real job!"

"Yeah, it is." I agree and I can see Sora now, given how close the table is to the speck of stage. He looks a little nervous but from what I can pick out, he's playing just as perfectly as always.

"How old are you, by the way?"

"I'm 23." I say with a bit of hesitance, quirking an eyebrow at her inquiry.

"Oh, that's not bad." Kairi declares, smoothing the tube of pink across her lips effortlessly. "He made it sound like you were way older. I was getting worried for a while there."

"He's only 20, that's not much younger than me."

Kairi pauses, and her eyes flick to mine, a lighter blue than Sora's, I think, but it's hard to tell in this lighting. An indecipherable expression crosses her face for a moment before she nods, smiling thinly, screwing the cap on her lip gloss. "He prefers older guys. So...good for you right?"

I try to figure out what that face meant but then the song ended and I was too distracted by clapping along with everyone else to think about it too much.

"So you went to Juilliard with Sora?"

Kairi lights up at the mention of Juilliard and the traces of that look are long gone now. "Yeah! Well, we were each in different groups or whatever, but yeah, that's where we met." Her smile is a little more reminiscent now. "He was really good. Like top-of-the-class good." She then frowned sharply, fiddling with the straps of her purse. "It's just too bad he had to drop out, you know?"

I raise my eyebrows at that. "He dropped out?" I say thoughtfully and Kairi nods, slowly. "Sora never mentioned that."

"He didn't?"

"Why did he drop out?" I ask instantly.

"Oh, um, I don't know." She bites her lip, as if thinking. "You know, I think it had to do with his family at the time."

"When he ran away?" I say, putting it together a little piece at a time. That made sense. He dropped out Juilliard because he wanted to leave. I wonder why he didn't tell me that.

"Oh! He told you about that?" Kairi huffs, blowing out a breath that ruffled her bangs. "Seriously, Sora makes no sense."

I'm not sure what to say to that, so I look back at the stage as they start another set. Sora waved subtly and Kairi and I wave back, Kairi with way more girlish enthusiasm.

"So," Kairi turns toward me in her seat. "You gonna order me a drink or what?" When all I look is confused she raises her hand with the black stamped M, wiggling her fingers pointedly. "Come on, if I gotta sit here with my best friend's date, I might as well get something out of it."

"Oh." I blink, figuring she's about the same age as Sora. One year wouldn't hurt. "What do you want?"

"Rum. No wait—Champagne...or, wine?" She looks at me helplessly and I snort, flagging down a server and ordering two Rum and Cokes.

"That was pathetic." I say, teasing her if only because I could.

Kairi wrinkles her nose and I almost expect her to stick her tongue out at me like an adolescent. "You're not that great, you know." She says with all the ferocity of a little perky redheaded gerbil. Once our drinks arrive, she seems to forget all about my remark though.

"I bet you were the first one to kiss Sora, huh?" Kairi assumes, taking a tentative sip from her glass. "Wow, this is good."

"Yeah. I was." I say, nursing my own glass. "He's afraid of making the first move."

"Mm-hmm." Kairi hums, becoming gradually more confident with her drink, taking slightly larger sips.

"Might want to slow down there." I point out and this time, she actually does stick her tongue out at me. I laugh and take my time as I survey the stage and find Sora there. He's completely within his element and it's an oddly attractive look for him.

Things start getting a little fuzzy after a while, once I work up a good buzz on drink three. Kairi's giggling and clutching my wrist to my right and I do my best to ignore her. Somehow, I knew I shouldn't have bought her more than one drink. She obviously didn't need the alcohol.

I wonder how late it is as the redhead stumbles in an impossibly graceful way to her feet, mumbling something about a bathroom. Even though I couldn't understand a damn thing she said, I think it's safe to assume she was going to use it.

They sound the last call and I decide against another drink, finding that I'd like very much to make it home tonight. Things start to slow down after 1 AM as people began to pack up their stuff and usher themselves and their dates out the door and the band begins to pack up. I find myself looking around for Kairi with a minor amount of concern. I can't remember how long ago she went to the bathroom, but it felt like hours.

"Riku." My heart leaps in my throat at Sora's voice and through the haze I can make out his outline even in the dim building. I turn and step forward only once before I have an armful of Sora, his body too-warm with excitement, nuzzling against my chest, arms around my waist, soft hair tickling just under my jaw. I find I really enjoy the hug and encourage it with a little nuzzling of my own, burying my nose in his hair and bringing my arms up so they curl tightly around his back.

This moment really should make me question my judgment due my alcohol intake and I wonder about Sora and why he seems to smell a bit like alcohol himself. "Riku," Sora repeats, his voice heavy in my ear, heavy with heat and suggestion, a little pleading on top. "Mm," He hums, his lips brushing the underside of my jaw, the side of my neck, parting to drawl out a few drunken words. "Take me to bed or lose me forever."

The familiarity of the line makes me smile and I keep my arms around him, hugging his lithe body tight.

"Did you just quote Top Gun to me?" I say incredulously, muttering into his hair, but it soon doesn't matter anymore as his head lifts up, and his mouth closes firmly over mine and I can taste the flavor of beer and the warmth of something much stronger on his tongue. And the way his arms curl around my neck and the hard press of his hips make me quickly forget that Tom Cruise ever existed.

–

_God, I love that line. This is where this chapter ends for now. Will there be smut in the next chapter? Maybe, possibly. Yes. Will there be drama? Hopefully. _

_I didn't proofread this at all so please excuse any mistakes. I'll fix them when I have time to read this again. Probably tomorrow._


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